


Rue

by RogueLioness



Series: Tales of the Wolf's Heart [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Smut, F/M, Heavy Angst, Post-Crestwood feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueLioness/pseuds/RogueLioness
Summary: Lavellan struggles to cope after Solas breaks up with her.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, solavellan - Relationship
Series: Tales of the Wolf's Heart [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/764784
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	Rue

It’s raining in Skyhold.

The grey skies lend a dull atmosphere to the already low mood of the group standing around the war table. In the silence, the sound of raindrops tapping against the window panes is especially loud.

“Did- did I hear correctly?” the Commander stutters, blinking in disbelief. He turns to the Seeker who is standing next to him. “I didn’t hear… _that_ , did I?”

She exhales. Their disbelief is not unexpected. “You hear me correctly, Commander. I asked if either you or Cassandra could make me Tranquil.”

“Did you injure your head, Inquisitor?” Dorian drawls. “During that excursion to Crestwood, perhaps? We really should get you to the healers. A concussion is no laughing matter, after all.”

Leliana says nothing, only stares at her from under her hood. Her face betrays none of her thoughts. “Where did this sudden request come from, Inquisitor?”

Her lips quirk upwards into a mirthless smile. _Where did it come from_ ? Had they not _seen_ her face? The dark, almost bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes, her sunken cheeks? Even if they had no idea about the skipped meals or the sleepless nights, surely her appearance was more than an adequate answer to that question.

“Let’s not beat around the bush, shall we? You must know by now that Solas- that the relationship between Solas and myself is no more. And-” Lavellan touches her face. She can’t feel the raised lines anymore; the smoothness of her skin still feels so strange, as though she’s not touching her own face but someone else’s. “I- cannot sleep. No,” she corrects herself when she sees Dorian about to raise an objection. “I cannot _afford_ to sleep. The demons of the Fade are- there are too many of them. Each night I dream, they get closer, and hungrier. I- I do not have the strength to deal with them. And yes-” she turns to Dorian now. “I have taken potions to keep me from dreaming. But you know as well as I do that a mage cannot stay away from the Fade.”

The others look mystified, so she explains. “A mage’s power comes from their connection with the Fade. This connection is made stronger when we sleep, and dream in the Fade. It is why we are aware of the Fade when we dream. When we stay away from the Fade, our connection weakens. We become… our power becomes weaker. It is why Tranquil cannot cast.”

“But _why_?” Cullen, bless him, still doesn’t understand.

“I am- we are getting closer to Corypheus, are we not? I am, in my current state, not very equipped to face him. The longer I go without sleep, the weaker I get. And the harder it is for me to face the demons when I eventually do fall asleep. This makes me a liability. I am simply taking measures to ensure that we - that the Inquisition - does not suffer.”

“There are other ways to deal with heartbreak than making yourself Tranquil!” Dorian hisses.

Lavellan fixes him with a level glare. “I’m aware of that, Dorian! But how many of those people have to do what I do? How many of them have to hunt down and fight an ancient darkspawn magister? Do you think I can afford the time needed to get over it? And even if I could spare the time, _where_ would I go, exactly? Back to my clan?” She points at her face. “Solas took my vallaslin, Dorian! The only thing that remained of my Dalish heritage. Yes, I let him,” her voice trembles at the memory. She takes in a deep breath, swallows, and continues. “If I go back, my Keeper will take one look at my face and deem me a lost cause. She will say, ‘go back to your _shems_ , for they have wholly claimed you for their Andraste’ _._ And she would be right.” 

Lavellan bows her head in Josephine’s direction. “As the ambassador would be more than happy to inform you, it was bad enough that the Herald of Andraste was an elf. A Dalish elf? Even now the people mock, do they not?”

“Yes,” Josephine says quietly, unable to meet Lavellan’s eyes.

“There it is, then.” She exhales heavily, her shoulders slumping. “I called you all here to- If Cullen and Cassandra make me Tranquil, I hope that I can count on your help, Dorian, to find a way to reverse it.” She gives him another humorless smile. “If it cannot be- that’s fine.” Her gaze flickers to Josephine. “I assume that, once news of my Tranquility gets out, our mage allies will be in an uproar. Which leads me to my second point. _They must not know_. We will conduct the ritual away from Skyhold. I will fake my own death, and Cassandra can take over as the Inquisitor. I will remain in hiding till Corypheus makes himself known, at which point I will ride out to fight him.”

“This is madness,” Dorian seethes.

“What will you do after Corypheus is defeated?” Leliana asks. Her face is still covered in shadow.

“Assuming I survive-” Lavellan shrugs. “Who knows?”

“Inquisitor, with all due respect-” Cullen coughs, clearly struggling to find the right words. “Assuming we were to go along with your insane proposition… how would you defend yourself without your abilities?”

“I am Dalish, Cullen,” her grin is genuine, “I had a bow in my hand from the moment I could walk.”

“Inquisitor-” Cassandra’s brows are knitted together, and her face is downcast. “This is- please. Think this over. Reconsider what you’re asking of us.”

“I, for one, want no part in this,” Dorian snarls. He spins and leaves the room, slamming the door.

Lavellan sighs. She has a violent headache now. “I doubt I will change my mind, Seeker, but very well. We can return to this matter in a day or two.” She looks around the room. “And nothing of what was said here should get to Solas. Do you understand me? I do _not_ want him to know.”

They all nod uncomfortably. Except for Leliana, but Leliana never gives anything away.

\----

“A word if you please, Solas?”

The spymaster’s request - not to mention her tone, all sharpened politeness - has him on edge, but he doesn’t let it show. “Of course.” He uses a bookmark to mark the page he’s just been reading, and carefully sets the tome aside before making his way up the stairs. “What can I do for you?”

“It is not I who needs your help,” she remarks walking him out onto the quieter balcony. From here, he’s able to look down into the garden. It’s quiet there, with a few people out harvesting the many herbs that- his stomach clenches. “I do not know what happened between you and the Inquisitor,” she begins, holding out a finger to stop the retort on his tongue. “And I would not, in _normal_ circumstances, care.”

That has him intrigued. And worried.

“But when the Inquisitor holds a meeting and requests to be made Tranquil, well. You can see why that would give me concern, yes?”

He feels every inch of him turn to ice. “She- _what_?” he half-whispers, half-chokes.

“She wants to be made Tranquil, Solas.” Leliana’s eyes are burning, but he’s too distracted to identify the emotion within them. “Fix this. At once.”

He murmurs something - he doesn’t know what - before he takes his leave. The spymaster’s words echo over and over in his head.

_She wants to be made Tranquil._

_Wants to be made Tranquil._

_Made Tranquil._

_Tranquil._

Shame and guilt have been his constant companions ever since that fateful evening in Crestwood. His dreams and sleep have been minimal at best, fitful at worst. He’s had to keep a physical distance from her, for fear he would break down and beg to once again receive her attention and affection.

But- but _this_?

What has he _done_??

\----

There’s a quiet knock on her door, a familiar one. Lavellan feels the void in her core crumple in on itself; she knows who it is. Her hand tighten around the quill she’s holding, tighter and tighter till it snaps, staining her fingers with black ink.

She hisses, throws away the pieces into the bin, wipes her hand on her pants. It’s going to stain, she knows it, and Josephine will probably be unhappy, but she doesn’t care about that right now.

“Come in,” she calls out, pleased at how steady her voice is.

She looks at him from the corner of her eye as he slowly makes his way towards her. He looks terrible, and though that fact should please her, it just makes her sadder.

“Just a minute, please.”

Solas takes a seat on the couch, fighting off the memories that threaten to overwhelm him. HOw many times had he sat here before, sat next to her, laughing and smiling and talking and kissing and there was that one time when she was seated atop him with him buried within her- he shakes his head, focuses on her instead.

He supposes he understands why she made her mad request. She’s pale, thinner than she should be, hair limp even in the neat braid it’s tied into. Sadness wafts away from her in large, towering waves, threatening to pull under anyone who gets too close.

_I did this_ , he thinks miserably to himself. _This is all my fault_.

Yet another mistake he does not know if he can fix.

There’s ink on her hands, and he watches the careful way she handles the parchment so as to not smudge it. Her attention is absolute - he knows, in intimate, minute detail, how it feels to have it turned on him. 

He yearns for it.

_I cannot_.

It has become his mantra. _I cannot. I cannot. I cannot-_

Finally, she looks up at him, and smiles. It is a polite, detached one, the kind she gives to the nobles who mock her accent and her ears and her heritage, and it is more than he deserves.

“Solas. How can I help you?”

He rises, and walks towards her, hands clasped behind his back from sheer force of habit. She merely leans back in her chair and looks up at him, one of her brows raised.

“I heard you wished to be made Tranquil.”

She has to force herself not to look away. There’s so much reproach in his voice, so much reprimand, that it makes her blood blaze with anger and resentment. How _dare_ he? After everything he’s done!

_Do not let him see how he affects you,_ she reminds herself. _Do not. Do not. Do not._

Lavellan rolls her eyes. “Who told you? Dorian? Let me guess, it was Dorian, was it not?” she drawls, injecting boredom into her tone.

“Where I got the information from is of no matter. What matters is the veracity of it!” His voice lowers, turns pleading. “Tell me it isn’t true,” he beseeches.

She crosses her arms, snaps her teeth at him. “It is true.”

He had hoped- he’s baffled now, truly and wholly. She is- she has always revelled in her magic, taken a great deal of pleasure in casting and learning and- why would she give it up? Why would she do this to herself?

_Because of you_ , that voice shouts at him. 

He pushes away the thought. She is stronger than this, stronger than- “Why?” he asks, his fists clenched. “You would throw away all that you are simply because I ended our- our dalliance-”

“Is that what it was?” she asks softly, quietly. “A dalliance?”

He wants to fall to his knees, catch her hands, kiss her palms. Spread at her feet all the countless lies that cloak him, offer up the truth on his tongue that is hers, and only hers.

_I cannot_.

“Perhaps not,” he concedes, for even he cannot make light of what she means to him. “Still-”

“The Fade is dangerous for me, Solas.” Her tone carries pain and shame and sorrow, and it pierces the core of him. “There are more demons than I can count. Despair. Rage, Malice. Madness. Desire. There are so many whose names I do not know, because I have never encountered them before.” She sighs, gets to her feet, moves to the fireplace. Lavellan’s arms are wrapped around her, an unconscious, feeble attempt to protect herself.

“I cannot fight them off. And I cannot keep drinking the _banal’era_. I cannot- I cannot go on like this, not with the end so close.” She falls into silence, lost in the way the flames spark and flicker and dance. This close, she should be sweating from the heat, but she’s so cold inside she’s certain she could physically step onto the blazing logs and not burn. “Besides, why do you care? If you have been sent by the others to change my mind, kindly return to them and let them know that I am quite certain of what I wish to do.”

He is a monster in many, many ways, and his destiny and his path will force him to continue to be one- but he cannot let her do this. He cannot, he will not. She is everything that is good and precious and she- he has caused her enough suffering, and- he can offer her something, even if it means cutting out his own heart.

“I- there is another way to- to ease the pain,” he tries, oh, he tries so hard to keep his voice even, but it wavers, just the slightest.

She turns to him. “What?”

He holds his hands out in front of him. As an offering, or in a plea to get her to fill them? He doesn’t know. “I can- I can take away the memories. Of- of us. It will- there will be no pain. You will not have to worry about demons. You can-” his voice is hoarse now, and he can’t stop it. “You can be happy again.”

A tear, lit up by the firelight, slides down her cheek, and falls from her chin onto her toes. “You think I want that?” she asks. Her throat is clogged with a hundred sobs, a thousand tears. “You truly believe I would want to remove you from my mind? That I would wish to erase from existence what we shared?” She’s crying now, unashamedly. 

His cheeks feel cold, and it’s with a detached kind of surprise that he realizes he’s crying, too. “You want to be made Tranquil,” his breath hitches on a sob. “What else am I to believe, other than that you are willing to give up all of what makes you _you_ in order to move beyond- beyond us.”

“I just want the pain to _stop_ !” she shrieks, striding over to him, fisting her hands in his tunic. “I love you. I should _want_ to stop loving you, but I _can’t seem to!_ I gave up _everything_ for you, and you- I _should_ hate you. I should. I _should_ ! But I _can’t_ , and it’s all _your fault_!” She yanks him down to her, presses her lips to his, tastes the salt of their shared tears. 

His mouth is still as soft and lush as she remembers it.

His hand slides up into her hair, grabbing a fistful of it, tugging in the way he knows she likes. He crushes her to him, unable and unwilling to let go. He knows he should step away, but- he cannot. So he kisses her instead, coaxes her to open up to him, relief flooding his being as his tongue finally tastes her once more. 

It is yearning, and madness, and desperation, and sorrow, and all the emotions that smoulders within him but that he cannot tell her, but most of all, he bears all of his love for her on his tongue. He wants to coat her mouth with it, have it slide down her long, graceful throat to where it will warm her belly. He cannot _tell_ her, so he will try to _show_ her just what he feels. What _she_ makes him feel.

She walks him backwards to the bed that she hasn’t slept in for days, because it smells too much like him. Her hands can’t seem to stop touching him- his jaw, his neck, his chest, his sides. Impatient, she pulls up his tunic enough to let her palms run over his bare skin, up his stomach to his chest. She feels his heart beating, heavy and quick, beneath her fingers, and that- that is enough to undo her.

“Is that your heart,” her fingers are splayed out over his breastbone. His eyes are as solemn as his face. “Or is it mine?”

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he groans, catching her mouth again. It’s not an answer, not really, and yet it is.

He kneels. He will give her all she wants, tonight, as much as he can. He unravels her footwraps, tugs free the knot that holds up her breeches, helps her step out of them. He slides his hands up her legs, his lips following behind, lingering on the skin of her inner thighs but avoiding the softness between them.

He will take his time, for he does not know when - _if_ \- he can have her again.

Lavellan whimpers at his touch. It feels so much like _home_ , as though beneath his touch is where she’s meant to be. His fingers are soft, but his palms are calloused. His kisses are deep and luxurious and feel like they’re never-ending, like he wants to drink and drink and drink of her and from her. His knee between her legs is glorious, the friction it gives her both too much and not enough.

His teeth nip her pulse, and he uses his lips to soothe the sting, but she knows it will leave a mark. She welcomes it, leans up to return the favor, revelling in the way his eyes darken and his cheekbones flush.

“Are you wet for me, _vhenan_?” he whispers against her kiss-swollen mouth, knowing full well the answer. 

_“Yes_ ,” she moans. “Solas, _please-_ ”

He gently hushes her, rolls so she’s atop him. “Then take me in you, _ma lath_ ,” his hands are on her hips and she’s soft, so soft, and she feels like she was made for him, and he wants to be in her so badly it physically hurts.

She half-sobs in desperation, rutting along his length, coating him in her slick. His fingers dig into her skin, and it will undoubtedly bruise tomorrow, but now, right now, neither of them notice. He swallows the sound that wants to leave when her fingers, quick and nimble, wrap around him, but there’s no way he can hold back the relieved cry when she finally sinks into him.

Oh. _Oh_.

He’s home once more.

This is no fucking, not as slow and gentle and _intimate_ as it is. Solas can see the wetness in her gaze, tender as it is, can feel it in his own eyes, but neither of them can look away from the other. She’s- she is- his mind goes empty when she rolls her hips, taking him even deeper. She rides him with long, drawn-out thrusts, her fingers tangled in his. He wants her to come, wants to see the way she falls apart because of him, and he moves his hand to where they’re joined so he can slide his thumb across her clit.

She keens. The sound is a balm to his sundered heart.

She fights the pleasure as much as she can. She doesn’t want to come, not yet, not without him. “Together,” she gasps out. “Please, _vhenan_ , together.” Her thighs are sore from being spread wide for so long, and her muscles will rage at her tomorrow - but that seems so far away, and so unimportant now. She whines when he pulls out from her, leaving her achingly empty, but it’s only a momentary separation, only enough for him to cage her body with his and then he’s sheathed within her once more.

“Solas,” she lets her head fall back on the pillows. .

“I know, _vhenan_. I know,” He fucks her now, long, scooped strokes, one calf on his shoulder and the other draped over his arm. He’s so deep within her, his cock hitting all the places within her that make her toes curl and her vision narrow.

Pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure, they climb higher and higher, and higher still, till she fears the fall as much as she craves it.

“ _Vhenan_ . _Vhenan_ , _ma lath, emma garahnen,_ look at me. Look at me.” His voice is strained with the effort of waiting, of holding back.

Her eyes are wide and hazy with pleasure. Her fingers are still entwined in his.

“There you are,” he presses his mouth to hers, draws away to see her face. “Come with me.”

One stroke. Two. Three, and they both cry out in unison, their gazes still locked. 

She’s boneless, unable to do more than to press herself against his side. His arm is a pleasant weight on her waist, the warmth welcome against her cooling skin. She feels him rest his head atop hers. 

His heart is still racing.

So is hers.

She shuts her eyes, trying to ward off both reality, and sleep. Both are abhorrent; they hold no allure when compared to the simple pleasure of being in his arms once more.

He sighs, and shifts, and already she can feel the distance settling between them once more.

“Already having regrets, I see.” She can’t keep the scorn from her voice. Lavellan props herself up on her elbow to look down at him.

“No,” he says quietly.

Hope flares within her breast once more. “What does this mean, Solas-?”

He sighs again. “Nothing has changed,” his tone is mournful. “I should not have-” His eyes are filled with so much pain, she’s taken aback. “But I do not regret- this.” He sits up, cups the back of her neck gently. “I- I owe you an explanation, I know. And- and I will tell you what you wish to know, in- in time.”

“Why not now?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I- there is- I cannot. I’m sorry.”

He looks so conflicted, so torn, so _broken_ , she lets it go. “But you’ll tell me? You promise?”

“Yes.” He leans in till their foreheads touch. “I promise. But-” his voice trembles again, “please. Cease your plan. I cannot bear- The thought of you-” he trails off, but his hands pull her close to him, wrap tightly around her form.

“But the dreams,” she whispers into his ear.

“If you would be willing to allow me into them, I can help keep the demons away.”

She breathes against him. Breathes the scent of him in. “I have some conditions.”

“What kind of conditions?”

“You keep the demons away every night, and teach me to better ward my dreams.” She puts some space between them, the better to see his face. “You give me your explanation once we defeat Corypheus. And,” she places her hand on his jaw, strokes his cheek with her thumb. “You spend the night with me.”

His lips turn upwards in a slow, reluctant smile. “Very well,” he concedes. “I agree.”

\----

The party is still raging downstairs, Skyhold - no, the entirety of Thedas, really - is celebrating Corypheus’ defeat.

And yet here she is, on the balcony by herself, welcoming a new dawn that brings with it no answers.

_You’ve outplayed me once more,_ her heart feels so bitter. A clever idea, Lavellan thinks, to leave without being seen. After all, he cannot not give her the answers he promised if he is not by her side.

The anchor flares to life at the thought of him. For a brief moment, she’s filled with a sense of bone-deep regret, so sharp and intense it makes her heart _ache_.

She doesn’t know _how_ she knows, but she knows the feelings are his.

It doesn’t make her feel any better.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I am clearly still in Solavellan hell.
> 
> Also, fun fact: in the first iteration of this, Lavellan goes through with the Tranquility. But maybe that's another story in itself...


End file.
